It may be sadly unfair but some men are remembered solely for their friendship with other, greater men. We know John Hamilton Reynolds and Benjamin Bailey because of Keats and Oliver St. John Gogarty (“Stately, plump Buck Mulligan”) thanks to Joyce. Such is the case with Thomas Warton, one of the “Graveyard Poets” and for five years the British Poet Laureate. We know Warton because of his friendship with Dr. Johnson.
In 1754, eight
years after signing his contract with publishers, Johnson was nearing
completion of his Dictionary and traveled
to Oxford to use the libraries. Warton had graduated from the university in
1747 and had recently become a Fellow at Trinity. That same year he had
published and sent to Johnson Observations
on the Faery Queen of Spenser, which the elder critic much admired. Johnson
befriended Warton, who later told Boswell: “. . . during his visit at Oxford,
he collected nothing in the libraries for his Dictionary.” Instead, the lexicographer spent five weeks on holiday.
In 1729, Johnson had dropped out of the university after one year because of
his family’s poverty. John Wain writes in his biography:
“Still, Jonson
had never put his whole trust in reading as a means of acquiring learning.
There were hours of convivial talk with Warton and with other dons to whom
Warton introduced him: besides, he doubtless felt, as many have felt, that the
very stones of Oxford seem gently to smooth away the rough edges of one’s
ignorance. (A dangerous illusion, for you and me. But less so for a Johnson.)”
In 1755, Johnson
published his Dictionary and received his Master of Arts degree – honoris causa
– for his services to literature from Oxford, thus becoming “Dr.” Johnson. Warton’s
poetry has not aged well. It is conventionally derivative of Spenser, Milton
and Pope. His best-known poem is the unpromisingly titled “The Pleasures of Melancholy.” I would, however, love to see the anthology of Oxford wit and verse edited by Warton titled The Oxford
Sausage (1764). Later, ever the critic, Johnson wrote a brief satirical poem about his friend’s work,
“Lines on Thomas Warton’s Poems”:
“Wheresoe’er
I turn my view,
All is
strange, yet nothing new;
Endless
labour all along,
Endless
labour to be wrong;
Phrase that
time hath flung away,
Uncouth
words in disarray,
Trick’d in
antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode and
elegy and sonnet.”
Warton was
offended, of course, but Wain reminds us of that happy summer of 1754: “Altogether,
it is clear that the ripening friendship with Tom Warton was the brightest
jewel of this Oxford visit. Warton was admirably fitted to be a friend of Johnson and his chief academic ally. . . . In Warton’s company, Johnson blossomed.”
Warton was
born on this date, January 9, in 1728 and died on May 21, 1790, almost six year
after Johnson.
I never tire of reading about the Great Cham of English Literature. Even now, to take my mind off the gigantic chest cold I've had for more than a week, I'm re-reading Boswell's "The Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides" (1785) which, of course, is actually a book about Johnson (a warm-up for the great biography to come) with Scotland as a background setting. Great literature will never fail you.
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